


Endless

by mareyshelley



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Blood Drinking, F/M, Masquerade, Vampire AU, Vampires, victorian au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-02-16 20:30:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21504094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mareyshelley/pseuds/mareyshelley
Summary: Unable to pass up the opportunity to attend one of Storybrooke’s annual balls, Belle finds herself drawn to the old manor’s library and her unusual host.Nominated for Best Historical AU and Best Supernatural in the 2020 TEAs.Winner of Best Historical AU in the 2021 TEAs.
Relationships: Belle/Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold
Comments: 97
Kudos: 172





	1. Chapter 1

_Storybrooke, 1888._

It was dark before she could leave.

Something about being out after sunset felt strange. The gas lamps had been lit not a half an hour before, and the smog of the town blocked out the moon and the lights from the homes further up the street. Storybrooke after dark was eerily silent and lonely, and not at all as interesting as she’d expected it to be at night.

Belle slipped out of the back door of her father’s book shop, and hurried across to the tailor’s shop beside it. Maurice slept soundly upstairs in their small home. He wouldn’t realise she was gone for several hours yet, and she planned to be back before then.

The tailor, a tall and dark-haired young man named Jefferson, greeted her after only three light knocks at his door. He gave off a nervous energy, with a slight tremble in his hands as he beckoned her inside and locked the door.

“I’d almost given up hope,” Jefferson said, gesturing for her to follow him into the front of his shop.

Pulling her cloak tighter around her shoulders to fight off the night’s cold, Belle hurried after him.

“It took papa longer to fall asleep than I expected,” she admitted. “Have you been waiting terribly long?”

“Not at all. I did a little light reading while I waited, _and_ \--”

He hurried around the edge of a changing screen and came back with a flurry of golden silk. The low candle light made the dress look almost black. It flickered, casting dancing shadows over the long skirt, highlighting the ruffles and colour. It was a beautiful dress.

“The wait gave me a chance to make some last minute alterations.”

Belle reached out to stroke the soft taffeta, and frowned.

“But I ordered blue,” she said, desperate not to sound too petulant or ungrateful. “I never wear gold, it’s too… It’s not my colour.”

“Nonsense!” Jefferson insisted, dropping the heap of silks into her arms and ushering her behind the changing screen. “I had but a little of the blue taffeta left,” he explained as Belle stared at the dress in her arms. “Which, in a way, was fortunate. The gold will suit you much better, Belle. You’ll be the talk of the ball, I can assure you of that.”

Her cheeks flushed, but she set to work slipping off her simple skirt and petticoat. She’d never worn such a fine dress before, and she’d read that ladies more accustomed to fine gowns needed a maid to help them in and out of them. Belle hoped she wouldn’t need help getting in and out of this dress. She was used to tying her corsets by herself, but there were many ribbons to be tied into place and ruffles and frills that needed straightening. More than once she was tempted to call for Jefferson, until finally she felt the gown was on and in place.

“Jefferson?” she called, peeking around the edge of the changing screen.

He appeared a moment later, wearing his own outfit and a great smile. Normally, Jefferson favoured dark suits with silk cravats and gloves and a wide array of top hats. For Gold’s ball, it seemed, he would be wearing all white. Even the pin in his cravat and the buttons of his coat, which were usually gold, were a polished silver so pale that they themselves appeared almost white.

“Wonderful,” he said, clapping his hands together. He always had an odd, mad look in his eyes when a particular outfit had worked out _just so_. “There’s just one final thing we must do before we find our carriage.”

“ _Find_ our carriage?” Belle asked, following him into the back room. It was filled with great rolls of fabric in all colours and textures and patterns. Spools of thread scattered his desk around a shining new sewing machine, and there with his needles and scissors, were two masks.

Jefferson’s was white, and covered half of his face when he slipped it on. Belle couldn’t see the colour of her own until he held it out for her to take. She’d expected more gold, but instead her mask was deep red, edged with silk roses along the right eye.

It was all very fine. She couldn’t believe that her small payment for the dress had been able to afford her so much. Jefferson had offered to take her to the ball when her father had refused to let her attend, and there was no use in asking Gaston, but now she suspected he was helping her more than just providing her with a chaperone and carriage. Her money would not have stretched to the price of the dress alone, especially not when matched with such a lovely mask.

“Slip it on,” Jefferson said, tying his own with a white ribbon, “and take a look in the mirror.”

Belle hesitated for but a moment before Jefferson’s enthusiasm became contagious. She returned his smile and put on her mask. Her hair was pinned up into a large bun. She hadn’t had the time, or the skill, to fashion it into something more suited for a grand ball, but now she was glad. The ribbon of the mask would have ruined anything more intricate.

Turning to the mirror, the taffeta whispered across the hardwood floor until she stopped and saw herself for the first time.

She had never worn a bustle dress before. It ruffled and cascaded down the curve of her hips, and put her in mind of liquid gold as it rippled with each of her steps. The bodice was black, and the shoulders and neckline came down in a gentle curve which still managed to show off more of her chest than Belle would ever dare to normally. Even her arms were bare. Only her shoes were her own; a pair of leather boots which laced up the front. They didn’t match the dress, but the skirt and ruffles were long enough to hide them.

Belle brushed her hands down the front of the dress and fixed her mask a little straighter over her eyes. It covered only the bridge of her nose and the tops of her cheeks, but she still felt that a stranger looked back at her in the mirror. It wasn't what she'd asked for, but the dress itself was rather lovely. If nothing else, it would do her good to try something new, and wasn’t the whole point of a masquerade ball to not look like oneself?

“Oh, yes,” Jefferson said from the doorway. “That will do nicely.”

After putting on her own cloak -- a worn black thing which didn’t match the quality of her dress and made her feel underdressed compared to Jefferson -- the two of them left his shop in search of the carriage. Jefferson explained that, since her father would be just next door, he didn’t want to risk him hearing the horses or the wheels on the cobblestones. It was much better, much _cleverer_ , he said, to meet the carriage elsewhere.

They met their driver a street away, outside the old town library, and Jefferson offered her his hand to help her inside ahead of him.

Her stomach was all aflutter when the carriage began to move. It finally sank in what she was about to do; what she was already doing. She was going to attend one of Storybrooke’s famous masked balls. Only an elite few in Storybrooke ever attended, the guest list full of the wealthiest in all the county.

The Mills family would normally be the hosts, but this year the ball was being held at the Gold estate; an even more exclusive event that poked and tugged at Belle’s curiosity. She knew nothing about the Gold family beyond what everyone in Storybrooke knew. The head of the family was elusive and infamously wealthy, and that was all that seemed to matter. When Jefferson mentioned that he had been invited, and offered to take her, Belle knew that she had to attend no matter what. Even if it meant being alone with a man and defying her father. Jefferson had been very kind to her. He’d offered to make her a suitable dress, and had finally relented after weeks of her insisting that she would pay him. She trusted him to see her there and back safely.

The Gold estate wasn’t too far from her father’s home, but it was situated in a much nicer part of Storybrooke. Away from the mines, the shops and the smog, the manor was situated at the end of a long driveway, beyond tall, wrought iron gates. Old oak trees lined the drive, blocking the view of the manor until it was upon them; looming high over the trees in the dark of night. Many of the downstairs rooms were lit, highlighting cracked pillars and crumbling baroque windows, but little else of the house was clear by the light of the moon alone.

Jefferson led her from the carriage to the grand entrance, with a pillared porch arching over the front doors. Music filled the air the moment those doors opened, and voices came from behind far off closed doors. From there, the butler that had greeted them took their cloaks and led them further into the lavish home.

It was hard to tell if the house was Georgian or Palladian. It had symmetry and pilasters, and painted ceilings in some of the rooms they passed, but there was an element of simplicity to the entryway. There was no furniture, nor portraits or ornaments, only faded wallpaper where portraits had once been.

Belle looked around as the butler led them deeper into the strange house. A group of people sat around a table in the room to her left. There was no light in the room but the flicker of a single black candle in the middle of the table, and the people linked their hands around it. Belle wanted to stop and watch, but some of the guests spotted her and a footman came to close the door on the scene.

She hurried after Jefferson and the butler, until they came to a set of doors where the music was the loudest. He opened them, and the plaintive strains of a violin filled the air. Couples twirled in time with one another, under the chandeliers of a ballroom that was so vast it needed two of them to light it. It twinkled with the flames of dozens of candles, casting flickering shadows across the masked dancers below. The band played on a stage at the far end of the room, and along each wall were smaller stages with all manner of other performers.

The Golds appeared to favour ebony woods and black or gold ornaments above anything else. The windows were shrouded in velvet curtains of black and gold, and between them were heavy tapestries reaching from floor to ceiling; each depicting scenes from a story which Belle did not recognise, and providing a unique backdrop for the performers. 

Jefferson seemed to be more interested in looking over the crowd of faces, hidden behind masks of lace and gold and leather. Some masks were simple, others were curved into ornate shapes or animalistic in design, with frowns or beaks. It would be impossible to recognise anyone, Belle thought, but he still took in each guest. Belle herself was still captivated by the Golds’ unusual taste in entertainment.

On a short stage to her right, in a dress covered in black beads and coins that clinked as she danced, was a woman holding a candle in each hand. She twisted and dipped, bending her body backwards into impossible shapes as the violin and flutes played, and through it all the candles continued to burn.

Beyond her were jugglers and contortionists, a sword swallower and fire eater. A woman danced with a snake around her shoulders, and Belle walked a little closer to Jefferson. He led her past them all, closer to the band. It was as though he were in search of something, but he soon turned to her with a smile under his white mask.

“Would you like a drink, or should we dance?”

The room was so full and busy that Belle wasn’t sure where she wanted to start. She’d barely had a chance to take it all in before she was being asked to be a part of it.

Looking around, she spotted more dancers and places to eat, and statues that lined the outer walls. She shook her head and turned back to Jefferson with an apologetic smile.

“I think I’d like to look around a little first,” she said. “A house like this must have all sorts of secrets.”

Jefferson’s smile widened. “Of course! You ought to see his library. You won’t be disappointed.”

* * *

Jefferson had been right. Following his directions, the hall she walked was much the same as the corridor they’d entered through, with flaking paint and busts covered in cobwebs and dust. It wasn’t anything at all like the beautiful ballroom. She had no idea what to expect from the library, but when she found it, it was far nicer and so much more personal that she’d expected. It was the first room she’d found which wasn’t either ostentatious or decaying from disuse. She could believe someone used the library frequently and called it home.

Stuffed deer heads and antlers looked down at her from the walls that weren’t covered by high bookcases. Cabinets displayed pinned butterflies and moths, and artefacts that looked like they belonged in the home of an explorer, decorated every surface that wasn’t occupied by books. In the centre of the room was an old globe, beside a table with a map and two long sofas.

Belle walked in slowly, running her fingers along the spines of encyclopedias and classics and journals.

There were more taxidermy animals. Foxes and bats and owls stared with glass eyes out of their cases. And at the back of the room, beside a lit hearth, was a white bear. It stood on its hind legs, front paws raised, and roared silently at the empty room. The burning fire gave it the impression of movement, with shadows running across its stiff body.

Belle glanced around surreptitiously, then reached out a cautious hand to stroke the bear’s coarse fur.

“An arctic bear,” a voice said in her ear. She jumped and turned to find a man standing behind her.

“Beautiful creatures, aren’t they?” he asked.

Stepping back, Belle glanced around the room and then looked at the masked stranger more closely. She was sure she’d been alone when she entered. Few guests had ventured as far from the ballroom as she, and he was certainly a guest. He wore a suit of all black, shot through with gold thread, with a silk cravat and a waistcoat of gold paisley. His mask stood out the most. It was as deep a red as her own, with a frown moulded around dark eyes. All she could see of his face was the tip of a pointed nose and thin lips twisted into a smile.

Belle looked between him and the bear. “It looks terribly fierce.”

“Can fierce things not be beautiful?” he asked, stepping closer.

She fought the urge to lean back as he grew nearer. There was nowhere for her to retreat to but back into the white bear, and she had no reason to be nervous of him. Had she not wanted to go to the ball to meet new people, as well as see what was inside the manor?

“I suppose what one person finds beautiful, another might not,” she said, and the man in the mask smiled. He stopped just in front of her, barely an arm’s width away, and Belle wrapped her arms around herself.

“And the things that all people find beautiful?” he asked.

“Then they must be truly beautiful indeed.”

“And little else,” he reasoned, turning his attention up to the bear behind her. “It is the things few find beautiful that interest me.”

He was an odd man, Belle thought. He seemed unwilling to share more than that, but he stood so close that she could almost feel his nearness, as though he was pressing against her.

When the intimate silence stretched out between them, Belle realised he would not speak again.

“There is no exquisite beauty,” she quoted, making him turn his head towards her. “Without some strangeness in the proportion.”

“You’re a reader,” he said, as if he should have known. Maybe he should have, since she was there and not with the rest of the guests.

Belle nodded and moved away from the fire, closer to him. He didn’t move or look at her again. He was taken by the rest of the room; anywhere that wasn’t in her direction. She couldn’t blame him. The room was filled with so many oddities, Belle was sure they would both need a day just to take in half of it.

“Are you an adventurer?” she asked, feeling foolish the moment she spoke the words.

He turned his head to her, but it was impossible to see his reaction with half of his face hidden. All she saw was the blink of dark eyes and the slightest tilt of his head.

“My wife was the adventurer,” he answered with a strange coldness, pulling back. “These were her things.”

“I… I’m sorry.” She faltered, and a heat rose in her cheeks. She was only thankful that he was no longer looking at her. He looked over the rest of the room, from the candles burning low in their candelabras, to the shelves of souvenirs from around the world.

“This is all-- I mean, this is _your_ home?”

He glanced at her, and the fire caught in the eyes of his mask in such a way that she could see he was frowning at her.

“Whose home did you think it was?”

Belle dropped her hands and played with the ruffles in her dress, trying to find the right words. She hadn’t meant to upset him.

“We have never met before,” she said as evenly as her nerves would allow. The calmness of her words seemed to surprise even him, if the way he straightened his shoulders was any indication. “How was I to know that _you_ were a Gold?”

“ _A_ Gold,” he repeated drily, and didn’t give her a chance to speak before he showed his back to her and walked away.

She couldn’t say why she felt so compelled to follow after him. She should have left the library altogether and returned to Jefferson, but a small voice at the back of her mind told her not to let him go. And so she didn’t.

She followed him to the sofas, where her stood beside the globe in the centre of the room. The silk dress made such a loud rustle as she moved, he must have heard her following him, but he gave no indication that he had.

“Clueless little thing,” he muttered to himself, drawing lines with his nails across the globe’s map.

Belle frowned and stepped up to him. He was very rude, and ruder still if he was supposed to be her host.

“She must have been quite the traveller,” she said, trying to regain his attention, “to have amassed such a collection.”

Her attempts worked enough to get him to look her way, but he looked at her oddly, as if trying to discern her expression. 

“Yes,” he said at length, the corner of his mouth flicked up into what she assumed was a smile. Whatever he had been searching for in her face must have pleased him. “I would have followed her to all corners of the world.” 

He spun the globe languidly; so slowly that she wasn’t entirely sure he realised he was doing it.

“Do you like to travel?” he asked, and it was hard to ignore the spark of hope in his voice.

“I would like to,” she admitted. “But it seems unlikely now.”

“And why is that?”

“My father wishes for me to marry a man from the town. He has no desire to leave.”

His hand stilled on the globe, hovering over a portion of the Americas that she knew about only from the books in her father’s shop. He tapped his fingers, watching the movement of his own hand, and for a moment she thought he hadn’t heard her, until he glanced at her again.

“Don’t marry him,” he said simply, as if it were that easy.

Belle twisted her skirt in her hands and moved forward.

“I have little say in the matter,” she said regretfully. “I wouldn’t, if I could choose for myself.”

He looked at her, less fleetingly than before, and a heat pooled in her stomach with the way he looked her up and down.

“Is there another you would marry?”

She swallowed and shook her head. “No.”

Carefully, in case he should object, Belle stepped up to the globe and ran her fingertips lightly over the map. She traced an invisible journey, across the sea to Europe and down to Africa. It didn’t occur to her how close they stood until she looked up and found him watching her.

Belle took her hand away and smiled politely.

“If you’re a Gold...” she said quietly. “May I know your name?”

“Prospero.”

He didn’t miss a beat. He didn’t pause to think about it, or to turn his gaze away when she caught him staring. It surprised a laugh from her and she covered her mouth, but he only smiled in return. Her father would have called her rude, Gaston would have scowled at her and berated her for laughing, but the man in the mask only smiled.

“Shakespeare or Poe?” she asked from behind her hand.

His smile tugged wider.

“Very good,” he allowed, giving her no real answer at all. “And what may I call you, sweet one?”

Biting her lip in thought, Belle glanced over the shelves upon shelves of books. If he was going to keep up the guise of anonymity, hiding behind his mask, then so would she.

Her eyes fell on a worn copy of _As You Like It_ , and she smiled.

“Rosalind,” she answered.

His smile fell. He didn’t strike her as a man who was easily shocked, but he took a step back, and the only reaction on his face was a flicker of white from the eye holes of his mask.

Had she chosen badly? Rosalind seemed a good character to name herself after, but perhaps he disagreed.

Regaining himself, Prospero turned to the library door, where the faint music of the ball could be heard drifting down the hall. He straightened, coming to a decision, and offered her his hand.

“Shall we join the dance, Rosalind?”

Belle pressed her lips together to keep from appearing overeager and smiling too brightly.

“I would like that.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you MapleSyrup for beta’ing both chapters and being The Best!

Their walk from the library was a silent one, but not unpleasant. Belle would occasionally glance across at him, and she was certain he did the same to her. He concentrated too intently on the empty hall and the doors up ahead whenever she looked his way. But at least that concentration gave her the opportunity to take in a little more of his appearance.

It was hard to get an idea of his countenance with his mask giving the impression of a permanent scowl, but she felt confident in her assumption that he would have a pleasing profile. His hair was longer than she was used to seeing on a man, but she didn’t mind it. It curled at the ends where it met his collar and shoulders, and walking so close to him she could see the beginnings of silver at his temples.

Smiling to herself, Belle walked the rest of the way to the ballroom with a warm blush in her cheeks.

The ballroom itself was still awash with life. Belle struggled to spot Jefferson amongst the dancing crowd, but she tried. She followed their host to one side of the ballroom, where one of two fireplaces burned away, working to warm the great room.

“Wait here,” Prospero instructed, and left her stood beside the hearth.

There were two stages of performers near her. One accommodated the contortionist, whose act made her tilt her head and wonder how anyone could be so flexible, and the other a man juggling knives. Belle shuffled away from his stage and cast another glance over the dancers. Jefferson shouldn’t have been so difficult to spot in his all-white suit, but several of the other men also wore white, and people moved so fast, weaving between one another, that it was impossible to focus on just one man.

Eventually, right before she gave up her search, Belle spotted him near the main stage. He was caught in conversation with an older woman in red, and didn’t seem to be enjoying it at all. She would have gone to his aid, had Prospero not chosen that moment to reappear at her side.

“Do you know her?” he asked, offering Belle a glass of red wine.

She accepted the glass with a quiet ‘thank you’ and returned her attention to Jefferson. She didn’t know how to tell him she had never drank wine before.

“Should I?”

“It depends what circles you walk in,” he said, and took a sip from his own glass. “That’s Cora Mills.”

Belle smiled politely and shook her head. “Cora Mills and I certainly don’t walk in the same circles.”

“No?”

“No. My father owns a bookshop. I can’t imagine any of the Mills family being shopkeepers.”

He smiled, but she didn’t feel it was at her expense. His eyes remained on Cora and Jefferson, scrutinising the pair of them, and Belle took advantage of his distraction. She tried a sip of her wine and winced.

“Indeed not,” he mused, and she found him smirking at her when she looked up. “But now I know why I found you in my library. Did you feel more at home amongst the books than,” he swept his arm out towards the other guests, “these people?”

“I--” She cleared her throat. The wine tasted awful. “I suppose I did, in a way.”

“It’s fortunate you did, otherwise we might not have met. And now that I have you here...” He raised his glass to her and took a sip. Belle resisted her curious nature which urged her to try some more.

“Would you care to dance?” he asked.

It was on the tip of her tongue to decline. She’d never been much of a dancer, except for when she was younger, and she didn’t think she would be able to dance half as well as the other guests. But the way he smiled at her had her setting her glass aside and nodding her head.

She took his offered arm and he led her to the centre of the room as the band finished one song and began another.

The first few steps didn’t come easily. She tried to follow his lead, but still almost stepped on his toes. He only continued to smile at her, and soon they fell into an easy rhythm.

Skirts flared out as they twirled, and capes and bright masks joined the flurry of colours. Prospero held her tight, but not close. He kept a respectable distance between them as they danced through the crowd. Some people, she thought, must have known that he was a Gold. They cut through the crowd, dancing wherever he led them, until they were in the centre of the room and all the guests danced around them.

The steps became easier and easier as she looked into his eyes and let him lead her. It was as though they’d danced before.

Smiling at the thought, Belle held his hand a little tighter and didn’t object when he pulled her close.

“Have you attended any of the Mills’ dances?” she asked.

“One or two,” he allowed. “But not for a time. They soon grew dull and lost their appeal.”

Belle frowned. “Then why host one of your own?”

He smiled, guiding their steps between two other couples. It was easy to fall into his eyes when he smiled like that. It was an indulgent, warm smile, as if he held some secret joke that she knew nothing about, but it wasn’t cruel. It suited his shadowed eyes.

“I was in need of a change,” he said, a thin excuse that even she could see through. “And my taste is vastly different to that of the Mills family.”

“I hear Cora Mills has similar taste in performers,” she pointed out. “Is this really _your_ taste, or what is expected?”

Prospero laughed, and the sound pulled her in deeper still.

“Do you think you know my taste?”

She supposed it would be ridiculous for her to say _yes_ and claim she knew the taste of a man she’d only just met. But something about the grandness of the ballroom, and all of its unusual performers, felt out of place. The whole masquerade was shrouded in a mask of its own.

“I suspect you want me to say ‘no’ because you don’t want anyone to know you,” she decided. “That’s why you made it a masquerade, isn’t it? You feel more comfortable behind a mask.”

His mouth fell open and Belle smiled sweetly.

Prospero returned her smile, but there was a sadness to it that made her regret being so honest in her answer.

“My wife said the same,” he said quietly.

The loss of his wife must have pained him greatly. She wondered about the woman herself. She’d never heard of a Mrs. Gold, and she must have been very young indeed when she died. Prospero himself couldn’t have been more than 50, if she could guess such a number with a mask hiding half of his face.

“Did she enjoy these dances?”

“Oh yes. She loved to dance,” he said, his sadness fading slowly as he regarded her. “You dance as well as her,” he added, leaning in to speak the words against her cheek. “Have you attended a ball before?”

She shook her head and his cold lips brushed against her skin.

“No,” she whispered. “Never.”

His arm around her tightened, pinning her against him and making it difficult to dance. It brought their dance to an end, but the crowd and room still seemed to spin around them. She had to lean into him to keep her balance and he held her fast, supporting her against his solid chest.

“And yet you dance so well,” he commented, stroking his hand up her arm.

He stroked her cheek with cold fingers that felt more like marble than flesh, and Belle tipped her head back. His touch soothed her, chasing away any hesitation she had at being held so intimately by him.

“Sweet Rosalind,” he murmured, his lips almost touching hers. “My beautiful rose.”

Belle closed her eyes and waited for him to kiss her. She could almost imagine that they were still dancing, her feet and head felt that light. The music ran over her, surrounding her like his embrace, as Prospero curled his fingers around the back of her neck and kissed her.

She’d never been kissed before, not really. A chaste kiss between friends or a sweet kiss on the cheek were nothing compared to this. His lips were soft and parted hers to accept his tongue. She didn’t know what to do, but she gripped his shoulders and followed his lead, and she took it as a good sign when he hummed into a mouth. It certainly felt good to her. His cold touch seeped into her skin, sending a shiver through her and kindling a fire low in her stomach.

She didn’t want it to end, and she found herself chasing after his lips as he broke away.

“Come with me,” he said.

He took her hand and led her through the crowd. The guests parted for them without impeding their dance, and Belle couldn’t take her eyes from him. His hand in hers was firm and cold as stone. It provided her with an anchor; something to hold on to tightly as she passed the masked dancers and performers.

Two footmen opened the doors for them, and she let him drag her into the corridor without a moment of hesitation. They must have known who he was. The guests and servants must have known that she was being led away by their host. Why else would they move out of his way?

The idea of it stoked the fire in her stomach, and Belle held his hand tighter as she hurried to keep up with his steps.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“The library.”

“Why?”

He gave her only a smile in answer, and continued on his quick walk down the hall.

Belle had often been accused of being naive. She knew she'd been sheltered by her overprotective father, but he had not had a say in the books she chose to read. She did know some things about the world, and she fancied that the look Prospero gave her was the look the heroes of her books gave to their sweethearts before they shared a kiss.

Smiling, she walked ahead of him and opened the library doors herself. He paused, looking at her as though he couldn’t understand what she’d just done.

 _Good_ , Belle thought. She would hate for him to think she was naive or predictable. With a pleasant blush heating her cheeks, she smiled a little brighter and entered the library.

The fire had died down considerably since they’d left. Embers glowed softly in the hearth, and a chill began to linger in the air, chasing away the warmth left by the fire. Belle wondered how easy it would be to stoke the fire up by themselves, but an orange glow warmed the room from behind her, and she turned to find Prospero stood there, holding a lit candelabra.

“How did you--”

“Matches,” he explained with a thin smile. “Won’t you have a seat?”

Her heart beat faster as she watched him set the candelabra down on a little table beside the sofa, but she didn’t sit. She wrung her hands together in front of her stomach, until she could hold the question in no longer.

“Are you going to kiss me again?” she asked, the words hurried and clumsy.

Prospero straightened and looked at her, and if he didn’t assume her to be a silly girl as most did, he certainly must now.

“Is that what you want?” he said, surprising her in his calm demeanour. “Do you think I brought you here to kiss you?”

He stepped towards her, and paused when Belle moved towards him in return. He looked so bemused by her openness, as if he really had expected her to be ignorant of what a man might want from a woman. She smiled a little wider, pleased to have surprised him.

“Didn’t you?” she asked sweetly.

His eyes narrowed, and she might have thought he was displeased with her, if not for the slow curve of his lips.

“You’re very forward, aren’t you?”

Her cheeks burned hotter than before and she twisted her hands together.

“My apologies. I would never normally--” Words failed her as he cupped her face. She bit her lip, trying not to read too much into the way he searched her eyes. His expression was blank, cautious, save for the intensity in his eyes.

Then he smiled and kissed her.

She almost fell backwards onto the sofa, and had to grasp his arms to keep herself standing. The ball was easily forgotten when he kissed her like that. The faint music of the orchestra faded into the background. The dying crackle of the embers in the hearth reminded her of how cold the room was, as his cool hands slipped into her hair. She didn’t realise what he was doing until she felt her mask slip loose, and she couldn’t say what compelled her, but she reached up to stop him from pulling it off.

“Yours first,” she said, meeting his eyes in a challenge. That he didn’t want to remove his own mask was evident almost immediately. He hesitated, but Belle held her mask fast in place, and when he realised that she would not relent, he lifted his hands to untie his own.

Holding her breath, Belle lowered her mask as he did his, and grinned. She’d been right; he did have a pleasing profile. He was certainly as old as she had thought him to be, with more lines that had been hidden under the mask’s scowl, but he was very pleasing indeed. And not smiling.

She wasn’t the only one who had held their breath.

Dropping her mask onto the sofa, Belle took his face into both of her hands. His cheeks were as cold as his palms. Touching him felt like stepping outside in the deep winter. The chill did away with her own heat and made her shiver against him, but it wasn’t unpleasant. 

“Kiss me,” she said quietly.

He released his held breath with a huffed laugh and a disbelieving smile, and put his hands on her waist.

“Sit down,” he told her again, stepping forward. She moved with him and the back of her dress met the sofa.

She sat, partly because she wanted to see what he would do next, but mostly because she didn’t trust her legs not to give way beneath her. He joined her a second later, sitting close enough for their bodies to be pressed together. Her cheeks still burned, and only his cool hands appeared to calm it. She dreaded to think what a sight she must have been, with her face flushed pink, but he only smiled at her and stroked her cheek, and then he kissed her again.

Reason told her that she shouldn’t be there. It was wrong. He wasn’t her husband. Her father wanted her to marry Gaston, and the man pressed against her, touching her, definitely wasn’t him. And she was glad. Belle held him close and rolled her head back as his kisses dropped lower.

Reason be damned. This was hers to give and she wanted to give herself to _this_ man, not Gaston, nor any other.

“Can I know your name?” she asked.

Prospero leaned back and met her eyes. She tried to smile, but it felt thin with her own nerves fluttering in her stomach, and the feeling only grew when he mirrored her smile.

“My name is Bramwell Gold.”

“Mr. Gold,” she said, ignoring the instinct to try and curtsy or offer a more formal introduction. Things like that didn’t matter when she was already pinned beneath him. “I’m Belle French.”

Gold nodded and dipped down to resume his kisses. It seemed he saw no need for formality or introductions either.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss French.” A sharp pain shot through her neck and had her gasping and arching against him.

Gold hushed her gently and cupped the side of her head.

"I can make it good for you," he soothed, licking her neck. "I could make you feel such wonderful things."

Belle nodded furiously and he raised himself up to look down at her. She smiled at him timidly, and he returned it as he rucked up the ruffles and folds of her dress. There was a lot of silk and gossamer for him to get past, but Belle lifted her hips and helped him as much as she could, until his hand brushed the bare skin of her thigh.

"I longed for a time when I could hold you again," he purred into her ear, and lowered his face to her neck. “Open your legs for me, sweetheart.”

She did as he said. It felt wrong to be so brazen, but his touch was reassuring and gentle, and his deep voice soothed her as he slipped his hand higher.

Her heart pounded in time with her growing excitement. Gold breathed her in and brushed his fingers against the racing pulse at the top of her thigh. His cold hand, gradually trailing higher, had her squirming and rocking her hips underneath him. She was desperate for something, but for what, she couldn’t say. He was already touching her, soothing her with his cool touch, but it wasn’t enough. She needed him to touch her higher, where she ached for him the most and where she had never dared to touch herself.

When his fingers finally found that spot, and slipped into the wetness of her folds, Belle blushed at the relieved sigh he drew from her.

“So pure,” Gold muttered, lifting his head to kiss her. “My sweet girl.”

He slipped a finger in deeper, and watched her closely as her head tipped back. She was vaguely aware of the dark, possessive edge in his eyes. The way he watched her as he pleasured her, as if he wanted to remember each gasp and sigh he drew from her; each toss of her head and the way her hands squeezed his shoulders in her desperation.

He slipped in a second finger, and a third, and Belle’s breath came shorter and quicker at the resistance he met between her legs.

“Please,” she whispered. She wasn’t sure what it was she begged him for so brazenly, but she felt her body reaching for something. Her hips lifted by themselves to meet his hand, and she found it increasingly difficult to think or form words for exactly what it was she was feeling.

She felt wound tight, but in the most wonderful of ways.

“What is it, little rose?” he asked, his voice deep and washing through her in a cool wave. “What do you want?”

“I want to keep going,” Belle answered in a hurry of words. She was so close to the thing her body craved most. So close she could almost feel it, building low within her. Gold appeared to understand.

Chuckling in a way that only made her need greater, he lowered his head to her neck and licked a long trail up; from her collarbone to her jaw.

“Yes!” she panted, clutching him tighter still. Her neck tingled where he licked her, and he put his mouth to the sensitive skin. He closed his lips around her flesh and sucked, and the _something_ she’d been chasing hit her like a wave.

Belle cried out, lifting her body against him, and Gold sucked and lapped at her neck as she shook. He held her close, soothing her with hushed nonsense and gentle kisses to her neck, as an indescribable pleasure washed through her.

When she settled, and the feeling abated to a dull throb, Belle felt heavy and tired. Her body wanted nothing more than to curl against him and sleep away the rest of the dance, and Gold seemed content to let her.

Distantly, she was aware of him pulling his hand from her. She watched him with hooded eyes as he held her gaze and sucked his fingers, one by one. It sent another, less demanding ache down her stomach, and she smiled faintly. He returned the smile, but his was decidedly darker, more satisfied and knowing.

He fixed her skirts and slipped off the settee. She thought he meant to leave her, but he knelt beside her instead, bringing himself down to her level, and stroked his hand over her hair.

“Sleep if you need,” he crooned. “I’m in no hurry to part company. Not company as sweet and missed as yours.”

* * *

When she awoke, the first thing that Belle noted was the warmth of a fire. It was a harsh heat after the cold, tender touches of the man who had brought her there.

Her eyes flickered open, blinking in the low light of the library. Many of the candles had burned down, but the distant music of a band told her that she hadn’t slept away the whole masquerade. Jefferson would be there still, dancing and waiting to take her home. Her father would be sleeping, none the wiser that his daughter had sneaked away to have relations with a man who wasn’t Gaston. A man that stood with his back to her, beside the fire whose heat was so foreign to her now.

Standing with a rustle of layers of silk, Belle did her best to smooth down her skirts and fix her hair. A few curls had slipped loose of her bun, and as she tucked them back into place, Gold turned his head to her. The rest of him stood still, cast in dancing shadows from the dying fire.

“You are beautiful,” he assured quietly, unmoving. “No one will know what happened between us.”

Belle dropped her arms, a sense of disappointment fell in her stomach, like a weight. Did he not want other people to know? Did he expect this to be a one-off, never to happen again?

“Will you--” She licked her lips and twisted her hands in her skirts. It would be silly to be so tongue-tied or coy around him now. He appeared to be a man who was rarely shocked, and so Belle pushed back the improperness of it all, and met his eyes resolutely.

“Will you hold another dance?”

The corner of his mouth twitched up. “Would you like me to?”

“I… I would. Yes. Very much so.” She closed the narrow gap between them and took his hand.

“I think I’ve found a new love,” she whispered, and Gold squeezed her hand.

“You have?”

“Yes,” she said, smiling mischievously. “I love to dance.”

His face shuttered, caught between warring emotions. He was either amused by her quip, or saddened. Belle held his cold hand in both of hers and smiled sweetly.

“And I should like to see you again,” she added. “Soon.”

“Yes,” he said, slowly and evidently before her words had had time to sink in. When they did, his conflicted emotions shifted to a soft smile and he lifted her hand to his lips to kiss it.

“I will send you a personal invitation, Miss French,” Gold assured her. “But your father,” he continued, stroking the back of her hand with his thumb. “Has he made your engagement official?”

“No,” she promised, shaking her head adamantly and leaning towards him. She couldn’t have him thinking she would do _that_ whilst engaged to another. She didn’t want Gaston. He had to believe that.

“No,” she repeated. “He’s only ever mentioned it. It isn’t what I want.”

He nodded once and covered her hand with his. His smile was still in place, unchanged, but a new look had taken over the softness of his eyes; something satisfied and calculated.

“It’s getting late, don’t you think?” he asked, releasing her. “Perhaps I should send for your chaperone.”

Heat from the fire seeped back into her hand, warming her fingers where they’d been enclosed in his. She shivered.

“How do you know about Jefferson?” Belle asked, rubbing away the tingle in her fingers.

Gold leaned behind her and pulled at a cord beside the fireplace. “Did you come alone?”

“No,” she admitted.

“Well then,” he said. “I should take my leave. The night is drawing to an end, and we need you abed before dawn. We wouldn’t want anyone knowing you came here, would we?”

Belle shook her head quietly and Gold brushed back her hair.

“I have so enjoyed our time together,” he promised. “I will be sure to send you an invitation soon.”

The library door opened and he took a step back; suddenly all straight-backed propriety and keeping a respectable distance.

“I believe you accompanied Miss French here tonight,” he told the intruder, a careful blankness to his voice as if he talked to one of his own servants.

“Yes, sir.”

Belle turned to find Jefferson stood in the doorway. He wouldn’t look at Gold directly, and her cheeks blushed anew at the thought that he might somehow be able to see what they had done. He looked so uncomfortable.

“Good,” Gold said, running his hand down her back. He pressed lightly against the small of her back, and Belle looked at him as he nudged her towards Jefferson. “Goodbye, Rosalind. Until next time.”

“Are you so certain there will be a next time, Mr. Gold?” she teased.

Gold smiled ruefully, secretively.

“There is always a next time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the response on the first chapter. This was originally just going to be a one-shot, but please let me know if you want more. I have some ideas for where I'd like it to go.


	3. Chapter 3

The invitation arrived almost a fortnight later.

It wasn’t for a dance as Belle had expected, but something altogether more intimate. The ivory paper, sealed with crimson wax and addressed in swirling ink, had been impossible to hide from her father. It had taken Belle almost an entire day to come up with a good enough excuse for what the letter was.

It was an invitation from Miss Halloran for tea, she’d settled on telling him. Ariel had invited her to her home many times before, sometimes with fancy seals or ribbons. Maurice hadn’t asked anything more of it after that. Which left Belle time to ask Jefferson for another dress, something simpler but more suited to an afternoon spent in Mr. Gold’s manor.

They settled on a powder blue tea gown with lace cuffs, and a white ribbon around the waist, detailed with fine silk roses. It was much more to her own taste than the masquerade gown had been, and Jefferson had tried several times to persuade her towards golden taffeta or red velvet. He'd finally relented when she'd insisted that both were too rich for an invitation to afternoon tea. Even the new boots felt too much of a luxury, and they were simple things made from brown leather. The only thing she wore that wasn’t new, as she climbed into the carriage that afternoon, was her mother’s dainty gold necklace.

Jefferson released her hand as she took a seat, facing the back of the carriage, and he climbed in in front of her. He’d insisted, as he seemed to with everything else regarding her visit to Mr. Gold, that he at least needed to escort her to the manor’s gates. He couldn’t have her ride alone across Storybrooke, he’d said.

They made small talk as they rode through the town. He fidgeted with his hat; moving it from his lap to the seat beside him and back again. Belle watched with a soft frown, and smiled at him reassuringly when their eyes met.

“What will you do while we’re having tea?” she asked him.

He moved the hat back to the space beside him. “I have business in the market,” he said. “It shouldn’t take long.”

“And what if I take my time drinking my tea?” Belle asked, smiling sweetly. “You shouldn’t worry about finishing your business in time to escort me home.”

“I introduced you to Gold,” Jefferson said, a little more serious than Belle had expected. She sat forward in her seat. “I have a responsibility to keep you safe.”

Belle covered his hand with hers, where it rested over his bouncing knee, and smiled.

“You didn’t introduce us,” she reasoned gently. “You couldn’t have known I’d meet him in the library.”

Jefferson looked away, out to the streets of Storybrooke passing by.

“I will be there when you’re ready to leave,” he said with finality.

Belle didn’t know how to argue with that. She couldn’t. He’d made up his mind, for whatever reason, that she was his responsibility and he would take care of her. When her father insisted on being a part of every aspect of her life, or he tried to involve Gaston, and whatever Gaston would expect a woman to do, she felt a ball of anger twisting in her chest. When Jefferson insisted that he accompany her somewhere, to keep an eye on her and ensure that her visit with another man went well, she only felt a tender fondness.

He had no reason to worry about her, she was sure of that. Her heart still raced whenever she thought of Gold, and her face burned when she recalled their time alone in his library.

She had nothing to fear from Mr. Gold, Belle thought as she settled back in her seat and the cobblestones jostled the carriage, and if Jefferson was worried about her virtue, then it was too late.

For the rest of the ride, Belle sat with pink warmth colouring her cheeks.

* * *

Gold’s manor was very different by daylight. Beneath the unforgiving sun, she could see all of the cracks in the facade. Gold leaf still glinted on the window frames, but those same frames were weathered at the edges. The grand, carved stones above the ornate doorway were worn down and chipped, and even the doors themselves appeared to have seen better days.

It was almost hard to believe that anyone lived there at all. It was even harder to believe that someone with Gold’s standing and wealth lived somewhere so derelict. But then a footman came out to the carriage and helped her down, and the same butler from the night of the masquerade received her at the door.

He led her through the foyer and down a corridor to the side of the staircase. They left the hall which led to the ballroom behind, but Belle couldn’t rid herself of the curious itch to see what the room looked like by the light of day. The butler left her in a conservatory with water damaged windows and ceiling, and dark vines snaking up the glass outside. It was an overcast day, but it still cast a great shadow across half the room, where a velvet dais was placed up one corner, and a table and chairs sat in the centre.

Belle watched the butler leave, waited for him to turn the corner at the end of the corridor, and tiptoed back out the way she had come.

It was easy enough to find her way to the foyer, but everything looked so different by daylight. The candle lights of that evening had covered a lot of the deterioration and dust behind flickering shadows. By daylight, everything looked so bare and unused. She walked the length of a second corridor, to her left, and only remembered her way because she spotted the doorway that had taken her to the library.

There was something haunting about being in that part of the house without the sound of music and dancing. The charm and life of the place had gone. In its place was silence and decay.

Belle pushed down on the golden handles of the ballroom doors. They squeaked, and the hinges creaked in a way that she hadn’t noticed over the loud orchestra that had been playing before, and she pushed them open to peek inside.

It was almost too dark to see anything. The heavy drapes still hung over the windows. The candles had all been burnt down and left in the sconces without care or thought. The stages where the performers had been were gone, and only the empty stage for the orchestra remained on the far end of the room.

She pushed open the doors a little further and stepped inside. Her footsteps echoed around the hollow hall. It was strange being there. She could almost hear the ghosts of the music and revelry in her head, if she closed her eyes.

“Are you going to make a habit of sneaking around my home, Miss French?”

Belle jumped at the voice in her ear. She turned to find Gold stood several steps behind her, an arm behind his back and a hand on a golden-headed cane. He was dressed very nicely. The black suit, gold chain and red tie weren’t too dissimilar to the style he’d worn the night they met. The same style she’d worn.

A heat rose in her chest, and she couldn’t stop herself from saying, “That depends if you’re going to make a habit of inviting me into it.”

Gold’s eyes twinkled with mirth, but he kept a straight face as he offered her his arm. He looked as though he wanted to say something just as forward, perhaps even more so, but he sadly kept his teasing to himself.

“I don’t believe Dove brought you here,” he commented instead.

Pressing her lips together, to keep from smiling and giving herself away, Belle took his offered arm and allowed him to take her back to the conservatory. It didn’t take many moments, now that she knew her way.

Once there, a footman left a silver tray with a china tea set on the table, and scurried around when he saw Gold and herself waiting in the doorway. Gold didn’t spare him so much as a glance his way, and he pulled out a seat for her and took his place opposite.

“Is it only us here today?” she asked. There were only two seats at the table, and as much as she’d hoped they would be alone, she hadn’t really dared to believe he would do that.

She should have known better after what had happened in the library.

“The odd footman or two may come in,” he allowed, pouring their tea and milk. “But there are no other guests, no.” His eyes flicked up to hers, made dark with the shadow hanging over them. Belle held her breath.

“Will that be a problem?” he asked.

Shaking her head, Belle reached for the sugar to give her hands something to do, and tried not to look at him.

“That is... ” She searched for the right words, to avoid being too forward again, as she plopped a sugar cube into her cup. “Very agreeable,” she decided.

Gold smiled and leaned back in his seat.

“I had hoped so,” he said. “After I found you wandering alone in my library.”

Belle’s cheeks heated, and she lifted her cup to her lips. It was the only thing she could do to avoid the knowing spark in his eyes.

“You appeared to be more at ease when we were just the two of us,” he added, stirring sugar into his tea.

“Yes,” she found herself saying, copying his rhythmic stirring.

“It was quite the coincidence we retreated to the library at the same time," she remarked, carefully placing her spoon on the saucer. "We may not have met amongst the other masqueraders.”

“I'd recognise your face amongst any number of masqueraders.”

Belle laughed. “We were all masked.”

“Then I'd recognise your voice,” he said with a sure smile.

She bit her lip, holding back her answering grin. “And if I didn't speak?”

“I'd recognise your eyes.”

Smiling, no matter how much she pressed her lips together, Belle set her cup down and he raised an eyebrow to her.

“I think you’re very good with words, Mr. Gold. I shall need to be careful around you.”

"Then we are equally matched," he fired back, returning his attention to his tea as if it were perfectly normal for a man to call a woman his equal.

"You have a quick mind," he added, staring down into his tea. He hadn't touched a drop of it yet. "And a very curious one. It will get you into trouble if you aren’t careful."

“I’m careful,” she promised.

His eyes flicked up to meet hers. “Are you careful with me?”

Belle almost choked on her sip of tea and put her fingers to her lips. She cleared her throat.

“Perhaps not as careful as I should be.”

Gold’s lips twitched up in amusement, and he leaned back in his seat to regard her. Belle tried not to fidget under his gaze, but it was difficult when heat prickled her skin wherever his eyes roamed. She brushed her hand along her neckline and tugged at the ribbon about her waist. His eyes followed the movement.

“It always pays to be a little cautious,” he said smoothly. “Does your father know you’re here?”

She lifted a shoulder and smiled sweetly. “He knows I’m having tea with a friend.”

“A friend,” Gold repeated, raising an eyebrow at the idea. “Does he know who that _friend_ is?”

Belle shook her head and bit her lip. She felt like a naughty child who’d been caught doing something they shouldn’t, with the way he looked at her, but he leaned towards her over the table and smiled.

“He would have forbid me from coming,” she admitted.

“You would have come regardless,” Gold said certainly, sitting up straight. He moved so slowly, so fluidly and smoothly, that each little move must have been deliberate. Belle moved closer to the table, to him, and perched on the edge of her seat.

“I take it he would disapprove because of that,” he waved a hand, “other man he intends for you to marry.”

“Yes,” she said quietly, resisting the desire to hang her head.

Nodding thoughtfully, Gold turned his attention to the high conservatory windows. She could only see part of a garden from where they sat. The flowerbeds formed two squares, both with what looked to be dead or dying rose bushes, and evergreen shrubs which she could imagine had once been trimmed neatly into all sorts of shapes. Now they were overgrown and turning brown.

“We won’t marry,” she said, watching him rather than the grim garden. “It’s only papa. Once he has an idea in his head, it’s very difficult to make him forget it.”

“And his idea is for you to marry a man you do not like.”

Clouds, blacker and heavier than before, moved over the sun. it seemed almost night inside the conservatory. Belle wondered if someone would come in to light the candles.

She looked up at the dark sky and sighed.

“Liking him or not liking him implies I must know him somehow. We’ve barely exchanged more than a few words, and I--” She stopped, biting her tongue, but when she looked up to Gold, he didn’t seem bored or annoyed with her talking so freely. His attention had moved entirely from the garden, back to her.

“Yes?”

Belle took a deep breath. “I want to truly know someone before I could give a thought to marrying them. How could anyone want to marry another without knowing them, and loving what they know?”

He stared at her, unblinking and unmoving. The clouds parted, and a small stream of sunlight beamed over their table. It broke whatever spell had fallen over Gold. He sat back, frowning faintly, as if troubled by her words, and stared at the light filtering across the table. It didn’t touch him, but it warmed her hand where it rested beside her cup.

“You want love,” he said after a time.

“Don’t you?” she asked without thinking. “I mean… Didn’t you, when you married your late wife?”

He smiled softly, the sort of smile that looked more like it was designed to fend off sadness than convey actual happiness. Like a wistful memory had suddenly taken him.

"Yes," he said quietly. "Yes, we had love."

Belle pressed her lips together in a smile, and leaned forward to cover his hand with hers.

The warmth from the sun left her. In its place, a creeping chill seeped into her skin and sent a shiver up her arm. Gold threaded his fingers through hers before she could pull away.

She couldn't say why, but the action made her stand. Not out of discomfort or disgust, she hadn't pulled her hand away, but out of a need to be closer to him. Belle rounded the table between them to stand before him, and Gold watched her every step.

Something about him was almost wild. He watched her as an animal might, as it tried to access if a person was a threat or not.

His shoulders relaxed when she squeezed his hand.

“How did she die?” Belle whispered.

“An accident,” he said, his voice breaking on the second word. “I couldn’t bring her back. No matter how hard I tried.”

“Oh, Mr. Gold.”

“Bram,” he corrected.

Belle leaned closer and smoothed her free hand across his shoulder. “Bram.”

She didn’t need to guess what the wildness inside him had decided. He tugged sharply on her hand, overbalancing her, and she fell into his lap.

Heat, warring with his cold hand in hers and cool breath on her cheek, flooded her chest and face. He smiled, winding an arm around her waist to hold her firm to his chest.

“You came back,” he muttered, searching her face and following the red blush down to her neck.

Unable to find the words, Belle could only nod and lean into him. It brought their faces closer, and with it, the memory of their night together in the library. She’d half-convinced herself the whole thing had been a wonderful dream. A part of her couldn’t believe that she’d… That they’d…

Being so close to him now, his chest firm and his cold mouth brushing against hers, she knew without a doubt that it had happened, and a familiar need began to burn low in her belly.

“You have haunted me,” Gold whispered against her lips.

Belle stroked his hair back from his face, and he turned to kiss the inside of her wrist. Her pulse fluttered at his touch, heated and racing as he breathed in the scent of her perfume.

“I couldn’t stop thinking of you, either,” she returned.

A shuddering breath left him, cooling Belle’s flushed skin, and she kissed him. It was bold to kiss him first, but he returned the kiss with fervour rather than distaste. She couldn’t imagine herself ever kissing another man so willingly. The thought of marrying another man filled her with a dread that had her clinging to Gold a little tighter.

“Sweet rose...”

Gold tried to pull away, but Belle kept their faces close and pressed their foreheads together.

“My intentions today, the meaning of my invitation, was not to repeat our evening together,” he said, smiling at the way her breath caught. “I intend to court you,” he added, and curled a lock of her hair around his finger, “before we repeat our evening together.”

Sitting back in his lap, Belle smiled and traced her fingertip over the knot in his necktie.

“You should talk to my father if you intend to pursue me,” she teased.

With a low chuckle, he returned her light touch, brushing his fingers along the low neckline of her dress.

“His approval or disapproval means little to me,” Gold said, looking to where his fingers met her skin. “Do _you_ wish to be pursued?”

Belle bit her lip and nodded.

“By you.” Not by Gaston, nor any other man her father might choose for her. She wanted the man who would give her the choice, and trust that she could make up her own mind.

White clouds moved across the sun, shrouding the conservatory again in shadow. Gold’s eyes darkened, and he held out his hand to her.

“Stand up, Miss French.”

Taking his hand, Belle slipped out of his lap and stood. He followed her, helping her to correct her twisted skirts and find her footing, then took her hand again. The room felt cold without the sun, but his hand felt colder still. She gripped it a little tighter and let him lead her to the centre of the room, between the velvet chaise and their cooling tea. Grey shadows from the clouds moved over them like a light fog, and Gold’s eyes shifted between brown and black.

“There is one moment from our evening that I should like to repeat,” he said, putting his other hand to her waist. “Our dance.”

Pressing her lips together, Belle put her hand over his arm and nodded, an excited flutter in both her heart and stomach.

“I would like that,” she said.

“Remember the music we danced to?” he asked, stepping forward and guiding her into the first steps of a silent dance. She nodded. “Then close your eyes, and listen.”

Belle followed his lead and closed her eyes. They had danced so beautifully that night. She didn’t need to see him or watch their feet for him to lead her again in a dance she hardly knew.

She lifted her head, following his steps, and listened.

The faint tinkle of piano keys echoed in her mind. The strain of a violin, haunting and distant, sounded as if from another room. The music grew closer and louder in her mind, until Belle could almost fool herself into thinking that it was in the room with them. 

Gold held her to him, moving them in perfect time with the melody in her head.

From her memory alone, she could clearly picture that night. She saw the black and gold drapes, the performers on their pedestals, and all of the masked guests twirling around them in a flurry of silk and brocade. Some wore wigs, others fluttered fans or sported canes.

The phantoms of the dance moved around them now. She heard the clicks of their steps, felt their presence all about her, and Gold’s hand pressed into her back.

“That’s it,” he encouraged gently. “You’re doing so well.”

She saw him in her mind, the way he looked at her as he spoke. Gold was unmasked, and he wore a red and gold frock coat in place of his black costume. He looked at her and no one else. 

He smiled at her and no one else.

A soft light lit her eyelids, and Belle opened her eyes to find candles lit all around them. They were alone again in the dark conservatory, but the music softly played on from down the hall, and Gold still led her in time with the dance.

“Did you listen?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead, bringing their dance to a close. “Good.”

“I saw you,” Belle added, and he pulled her close with his arms about her waist. “And the dancers, but they were… changed.”

“Oh?”

“It wasn’t like our night together. It was another time.”

He went still, his arms tense around her.

“Bramwell?”

"Come," he said abruptly, releasing her. "I have kept you long enough. Your tea will have grown cold."

The music stopped the moment she was free of his embrace, and the cold and dark of the conservatory came back to her all at once. It wasn’t the comforting cold she felt from his touch, but the cold of emptiness.

Belle wrapped her arms around herself and returned to the table as he did. He dipped the tip of his little finger into his cup, and smiled at her.

“As I suspected. Cold.”

Shaking the drop of tea from his finger, Gold reached for his cane and moved to the door. Belle frowned and put her hand to the side of the tea cup. She was sure they hadn’t been dancing long enough for the tea to be cold, but the china held no heat. It was as though all heat had been drained from the room.

Dropping her hand, Belle hurried after Gold and followed him into the long hall. Perhaps he was right. If she really had been there for longer than she’d realised, then her father would expect her home soon.

“My father,” she said, looking up to Gold as they walked. “You really won’t speak with him?”

“There’s no need,” he assured her, barely reacting to her question. He walked tall and straight, and sent her a confident little smile. “Everything will play out as it should.”

* * *

The sun came out as Belle left Gold’s manor.

Jefferson and the coach had been waiting for her outside, and they rode back together in silence. He threw continuous, furtive looks her way, as though he wanted to say something. Or ask her something. His leg bounced irritably, and more than once Belle wanted to ask him what was wrong, before thinking better of it and keeping their silence.

Belle bid him goodbye after he helped her down from the carriage, and reluctantly made her way back to her father’s book shop. She didn’t make it far before she saw the shop front, and the man that was leaving it.

Gaston walked away, his head held high as he spoke to his man servant, and Belle wanted the crowd to swallow her up. She wanted to hurry back to the carriage, to return to Gold. But it was too late now. Her feet carried her forward as Gaston disappeared down the street, and quickly ducked into the book shop.

“There she is!” her father greeted, grinning broadly and beckoning her towards the back room. He was dressed in his finest clothes, or what had been his finest clothes once. The waistcoat no longer fit him, the buttons pulled tight across his stomach, and he wore the same, worn black tie he had always worn. She wasn’t sure he’d ever owned another.

Warily, Belle walked towards him and stepped into the back room.

“Why was Gaston here?” she asked.

“Come sit down.” Her father pulled out a chair at a table heavy with books, and barely gave her a moment to sit before he pushed it under the table.

She sat up uneasily, fixing her skirts, and waited for Maurice to sit opposite her.

A part of Belle already knew what he was going to say, but after her afternoon with Gold, she couldn’t quite bring herself to believe it until Maurice said the words for himself.

“Mr. Legume has agreed to your hand in marriage,” he said without preamble, an energy of excitement to his otherwise calm demeanour.

He was trying to keep in the pride of finally securing a rich husband for her, but he didn’t help to settle the sudden churning in her stomach. He continued to talk about how advantageous it would be for her, marrying a man with as good standing as Gaston, but the words were lost on her. They faded into the background as she stared at the books on the table. Blood rushed in her ears. Her stomach turned sickly.

“Are you listening, my girl?”

Belle pushed away from the table and ran upstairs.


	4. Chapter 4

The following week had been dreadful. Belle had wanted to run to Gold the moment she heard the news of her engagement, but she hadn’t been able to see Jefferson to arrange a carriage. Instead, she’d spent her time in her room and the book shop below, until she couldn’t avoid the truth any longer and her father invited Gaston around for tea.

In reality, it wasn’t tea that Gaston came to the shop for. He came to discuss the finality of their arrangement, the wedding itself, and the announcement in the paper that morning. The announcement made it official, and the thought of that made her feel sick.

“The company makes a good annual profit,” he boasted from his seat opposite her.

The room was only small and sparsely-furnished, with a round dining table and a cabinet for their silverware and plates. The grandfather clock ticked by the time, filling in the short moments of silence Gaston left while he sipped his over-sugared tea. It was the only sound Belle could focus on that wasn’t Gaston’s bragging or slurping.

The company he spoke of was his father’s printing business. Something Gaston had little right to boast about, since he’d had no part in its success. Belle thought it was vulgar to discuss money over tea, whether earned by his father or himself. Gold had far more wealth than Gaston, and he had never once mentioned it in such a casual manner. If at all.

“It will be nice to have a woman to come home to. I can picture it already,” Gaston continued, loudly stirring his tea. “A fire lit in the evenings and a warm meal on the table. I could finally get rid of that wretched maid.”

Belle set down her cup with a loud _clink_ , and frowned. “Your _maid_?”

“Oh. Yes,” Gaston said primly, but there was a spark of pride in his eyes. “Don’t worry. I’ll leave the running of the house to you, but there will be a servant or two to help, should you need it.”

"You hear that, Belle?" her father asked, nodding encouragingly. "The man has his own servants."

"It sounds as though he wishes to acquire one more," she muttered into her tea.

Maurice frowned at her and she looked away. The rest of the visit passed in much the same manner. Gaston filled most of the silence and her father agreed to every word he said. Belle had little say in the matter, but she would change that. As soon as she was able, she would arrange to take a carriage and ask Gold to speak with her father.

* * *

The evening saw Belle abed earlier than usual. The day had continued to follow the same pattern of disappointment as the previous week, and had been made all the worse by Gaston's visit.

As soon as her father had closed the shop, and she had eaten, Belle excused herself for the night.

Gold had no doubt seen the announcement by now. All of Storybrooke would have. There would be no way for her to break her father’s promise and marry Gold. There would be no way for Gold to talk to her father for him to change his mind, not without disgrace to her for flitting from one rich suitor to a richer one.

She sat in bed, in only her nightgown and a book in hand, but her eyes couldn’t take in the words. She’d tried to find a book with mystery, something she could ponder to take her mind entirely off reality, and because she didn’t have the stomach to read anything with a romance in. She tried to read the same paragraph for a third time before she gave up and slapped the book down on her side table with a huff.

It was no good. Her mind would not settle until she had spoken to Gold.

A tapping sounded at her window lattice. Belle froze, listening to the irregular taps, until they stopped and she felt brave enough to slip out of bed. It was likely just a bird. A pair of pigeons had once nested in the roof, and her window ledge had provided them with the perfect perch. Perhaps another bird was in search of a home; somewhere to shelter from the cold night.

The tapping came again.

Pulling on her shawl, Belle went to the window and lifted back the drapes. There was nothing there. Only the light of the gas lamp and the silvery fog met her, and the reflection of her own face in the glass pane.

She frowned at herself, drawn and hollow in the low light, and opened the window. Cold night air met her, letting out the dwindling heat from her little fire. The faint breeze whispered passed her, carrying with it a dim voice. She tried to listen closely to the sound, to the distant murmur carried on the wind.

“Do you want to come in?” she asked the darkness.

The wind caressed her hair in answer.

Belle took a deep breath. “Come in.”

Heavy fabric flapped behind her, and a cold entered the room which had nothing to do with the chill of the night.

Belle closed the window and let the drapes fall back into place. An unusual calm came over her as she turned and saw movement in the shadows at the end of her bed. It was as if a part of her had expected, and hoped, to find him there.

“You invited me in,” Gold’s voice sounded from the dark. He stepped forward, just enough to be caught in the glow of the hearth and the little candle beside her bed. His shadow stretched high across the wall behind him, looming over the room.

She pulled her nightgown tighter around herself, aware of where they were and that they were alone in her bedroom.

 _Her bedroom_ , she thought with a heat rising in her chest.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, edging around him to return to her bed.

“I wished to see you,” he said simply, his voice as smooth as a whisper. “I was waiting for an invitation.”

Belle nodded, unsure if she was asleep or awake, and her heart skipped when he moved closer. His footsteps made no sound at all across the floorboards, but she couldn’t help but worry about her father sleeping just down the hall. Hopefully, he would be sound asleep and she wouldn’t have to worry about their conversation or movements being heard.

“I take it you saw the announcement?” Belle said, twisting her hands in front of her stomach when he nodded. “I wanted to speak with you before you heard from someone else... It isn’t what I wanted. None of it is what I wanted, and I hope you can forgive me. I wish I could… stop it, somehow.”

Gold’s fingertips, so lightly and gently that she almost couldn’t feel his touch, ghosted down her cheek. She stopped to catch her breath, and he leaned closer.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

Gold said nothing, and the heat in her turned to frustration. Tears pricked her eyes and she shook her head.

“Why didn’t you talk to my father?”

He took his hand away. “There is no need.”

“There is every need!” Belle almost felt like stamping her foot, but refrained. She settled on clenching her fists instead, and her tone by itself seemed to have been enough to make him flinch.

He straightened, and regarded her with an odd look in his eye.

“Do you wish to marry him?”

She frowned. “What?”

“If that is what you wish, then I will leave. If it is not…”

The heat returned to her cheeks, and she hated how easily he could make her blush. She could at least be thankful for the low lighting in his room.

“I don’t wish for you to leave,” she admitted quietly. “I gave _you_ permission to… to pursue me. Not him.”

The corner of his mouth turned up, and he gave only a nod to show that he had heard and understood. She dreaded to imagine what he must think of her. She had kissed him and danced with him, and allowed him to touch her, all behind her father’s back. Now she was engaged to a man she’d told him, more than once, that she did not wish to marry.

“Please don’t be mad with me,” she added uselessly, letting her shoulders sag.

Gold reached for her cheek with a gentle hand.

“I could never be mad with you, sweet one,” he said, his touch as soft as his words. “None of this is your fault.”

Belle swallowed thickly, blinking back her tears. “I wish we had met sooner. In another time.”

A look of unease came upon him. The candlelight caught in his eyes, causing the pupils to flash gold, and Belle’s breath caught in her throat.

“We are all victims of time,” he said, still touching her cheek.

Taking a deep, shaky breath, Belle pressed herself closer to him and made him look at her.

“I don’t want to marry him,” she muttered.

Searching her face, Gold seemed to come to a decision as he watched her bite her lip and struggle to keep back her tears.

“You won’t,” he promised, stroking the back of his fingers up her cheek. “I shall be your husband. In every way.”

“In...” Belle licked her lips. “In _every_ way?”

He leaned in, almost close enough to kiss her, and brushed her hair behind her ear.

“All I need is an invitation.”

Belle held her breath, just to keep herself from saying the words. It would be wrong to invite him to… She was engaged. It would already cause enough of a fuss if it was discovered that a man other than Gaston had been in her bedroom. But the longer she stood there, the seconds ticking by, the more Belle determined that she didn’t care. She hadn’t chosen Gaston. No part of her wanted him. If she was going to make decisions for herself, then she chose this one.

Letting her shawl slip from her shoulders, Belle threw it onto her bed and circled her arms around Gold’s waist. He wore a suit of silk and fine cotton, and the cold softness of the material was easily felt through her thin shift. It pebbled her skin and her breasts, and she hugged him a little tighter to keep him from seeing her nipples through her nightgown.

“What invitation do you want?” she asked. Belle wasn’t entirely clueless about the goings on in a bedroom between married couples. She read books. What she really wanted to hear was clarification that she hadn’t read the moment wrong. That what she wanted, was also what he wanted, and that he wouldn’t reject her when she said the words.

Gold searched her face, and his hands slid down her back. She was sure he’d be able to feel how his touch made her shiver, but his face gave nothing away.

“I need to know,” he said, his voice but a gentle murmur, “exactly what it is you want from me. Will you welcome me in, or turn me away. Do you know what you’re inviting in?”

Belle swallowed and dug her fingers into the back of his overcoat. The words were hard to say, but her need to take control helped her.

“ _You_ ,” she said, pulling away to take his hands. “I welcome you in. Come to bed.”

Taking a step back, Belle waited for Gold to follow her, and backed herself away until her back hit the bedpost. Then she was pinned between it and him, both of them firm figures pressed against her body and holding her in place.

Heat flushed her skin and chased away the cold of his embrace, and what bravery she had mustered. Her eyes fluttered shut and she lowered her head, but Gold didn’t let her look away for long.

“Look at me,” he said, hooking his finger under her chin and gently tipping her head back. Belle parted her lips at his touch and opened her eyes. “Do you want me to kiss you, like that night in the library?”

Belle nodded.

He traced his thumb over her parted lips, before dropping his hand to his side. She worried he was going to pull away, but his fingers found the folds of her nightgown, and he pulled it higher up her legs.

“Do you want me to put my hands on you, like that night?”

Belle nodded again, biting her lips and unable to tear her eyes away from his. They looked black in the candlelight.

“Do you want me to take you?”

Her breath caught. All she could do was nod again, feeling useless, and the only sound that escaped her was a gasp when Gold lifted her into his arms. The position made her wrap her legs around his waist, and her face burned fiercely when Gold cupped her behind and lowered her onto the mattress. 

“Do I still have your invitation?” he asked, slipping off his overcoat.

Belle wet her lips and scooted backwards into the centre of the bed. “Yes.”

Gold smiled, and although it was reassuring, there was something dark about it; something that made her heart race. His hands moved to the buttons of his waistcoat then, and she struggled to keep her breathing even. She watched his hands working to undress himself, and the dark glint in his eyes turned to something hungry.

Belle took a deep breath and reached out.

The sudden contact seemed to confuse him, and she wondered if she’d done something wrong, until he took her hands and placed them on his silk tie. Taking the hint, Belle gently pulled the tie loose.

Watching him undress had been one thing, but helping him to undress felt like something else altogether. It was more intimate. It made her an active participant in what was happening. What she did and what she wanted _mattered_. Belle smiled at the thought, and her hands slipped up to the top button of his shirt, but she only managed to pluck open three before he gently clasped her hands and pressed a kiss to either knuckle.

“Not yet,” he said, releasing her. “Lie down.”

“But don’t you… Don’t we--” Belle couldn’t find the words she needed to ask her question, but Gold raised an eyebrow and a slow smile crept across his lips.

“Don’t we?” he urged.

“I thought we would need to be… without clothes, for this sort of thing.”

“This sort of thing?”

“For… For _embracing_.”

His smile turned tender, and he took her cheeks into both hands.

“We will be,” he promised, “if that is what you wish. But it’s best to take things slow. We have time on our side.”

Belle nodded in understanding, and Gold’s hands released her. He looked her over, in only her thin cotton nightgown, and she thought she might as well be naked, with the way he looked at her.

He stroked the back of his fingers down her neck, over the dip in her collar bone, and brushed the nightgown aside. The wide neck slipped down her shoulder, leaving it bare to the cold of the room and Gold’s touch. He dipped down to kiss it, pressing and grazing his firm lips across her skin, up to her neck. Belle shivered, rolling her head back, and he pressed a final, lingering kiss to her pulse.

“Lie down,” he whispered.

With trembling legs, Belle sat down and turned to rest her head on her pillow. Gold watched the movement, but didn’t move himself until she was settled and comfortable; which she signalled with a small smile.

He moved to the foot of the bed, slipped off his braces and rolled up his sleeves. His tie hung open around his neck, swaying as he knelt at her feet and leaned down.

Belle’s skin, from her toes to her face, felt as though it were burning up. At first, she had thought it was from embarrassment, or some misplaced shame at having a man in her bedroom that wasn’t her husband. But then Gold kissed her knee, fuelling the hot fire within her and soothing it all at once with his cool lips, and she knew the burning was nothing but pure excitement. Her heart hammered, her breathing quickened, and she smiled to herself as he trailed kisses up her legs.

“Bramwell,” she sighed, threading her fingers through his hair.

“You must be quiet,” he warned gently, and pulled her nightgown up her legs. Belle lifted her hips, until the nightgown was pulled high enough to bare her lower half to him entirely. He had _touched_ her down there, but hadn’t seen her naked yet. His eyes, ever dark and hungry, focused on the spot between her legs and made her press them together.

“I can be quiet,” she promised in a whisper.

The hour was late, but Belle still feared that they would be heard somehow. Perhaps the bed would creak, or one of them would speak at the wrong moment and alert her father across the hall.

She bit her lip to keep herself from speaking again and tried to steady her heavy breathing, but it was no good. Gold’s mouth dropped to the spot between her legs and a keening, desperate and surprised, escaped her despite her best efforts.

Her eyes jumped down to Gold and she pressed her lips together, but he wasn’t mad. He smiled, satisfied, and slipped the tie from around his neck.

“Put your head back, sweet one.”

Belle did as she was told and let her head fall back onto the pillow. A moment later, the soft silk of his folded tie brushed across her lips.

“Open your mouth,” he added softly.

Realising what he intended, Belle parted her lips and let him slip the silk between them. She bit down on it, and he searched her face in the low candlelight.

“Is that all right?” Gold asked.

Belle nodded and tried to smile around the silk. She probably looked rather silly with the ends of his tie sticking out of her mouth, but Gold’s answering smile suggested she looked anything but. He released a shuddering breath and lowered himself down between her legs.

The position should have been obscene -- her lying in bed with her legs spread over his shoulders -- but she didn’t feel wrong. She thought back to their time in his library, when he’d laid her down and lifted her skirts. That hadn’t felt wrong, either.

Settling down into her bed, Belle wiggled to get comfortable and gasped when his cold tongue met her wet folds. The tie muffled most of it but Gold did it again in response, looking up at her, and her eyes fluttered shut. The silk became damp in her mouth, and Belle tried to swallow around it as Gold continued to use his tongue on her. It was difficult. She didn’t yet have the words for what he was doing, but his mouth had her gasping and moaning into his tie. She wanted to cry out, but the silk stopped her. The only way she could think to express her pleasure was to stroke her hands through his hair.

When the feelings created by his hungry tongue reached a familiar build of tension, her back lifted off the bed. Gold pressed his hand against her stomach, but he couldn’t keep her still. The feeling was almost too much, almost too good, and she rocked her hips underneath him, desperately trying to keep from squealing. She tried to say his name, but her voice was muffled by silk, and then the pleasure burst through her.

Much as it had that first time, when he’d used his hand on her, the feeling was overwhelming. Gold’s tongue continued to lap and swirl between her legs, and all Belle could do was lie in trembling bliss until the feeling passed and she trusted herself enough to keep quiet.

“Do you still need to keep that in your mouth?” Gold asked, lifting himself above her.

Belle thought on it a moment, and then nodded.

Whatever he intended for them to do next, she was fairly confident she wouldn’t be able to keep herself any quieter than she already had.

Gold smiled and nodded in answer, then set to work on the buttons of his shirt. Belle’s fingers itched to do it for him, but another part of her enjoyed lying back, watching him slowly exposing himself to her. His lips glistened in the candlelight as they shared a smile, and button-by-button he revealed more of his chest.

Her eyes drank him in, the candle’s flame flickering orange light and shadows of his torso and arms as he shrugged the shirt off. He was older than her, but she had no comparison for what a younger man might look like. She sat up and grazed her fingertips across his chest, from his firm shoulders to his soft belly. Gold remained still, almost unnaturally so. While her chest still heaved in her excitement and need to regain her breath, Gold seemed to barely breathe at all.

There wasn’t a single scar or blemish on his pale skin, she realised. She let her nightgown fall down over her own stomach, and the unusual white marks that had developed there only the year before. They looked almost as if her skin had been stretched. Gold had nothing like that, and she dropped her hands, hoping he wouldn’t notice her imperfections.

Leaning into her, Gold pressed a kiss to her cheek and brushed his thumb across his tie, where it was still pinched between her lips.

“Do you still want me to take you, sweet one?” Gold whispered in her ear.

She hummed into his necktie and nodded, and his lips twitched up.

He placed his hands either side of her shoulders and leaned down. A chill radiated from him, sweeping over her body and pebbling her skin. She shivered and Gold’s eyes dropped to her chest, barely hidden where her breasts peaked against her nightgown. She lifted her hands to cover herself, but he kissed the back of her wrists and shook his head.

“None of that,” he soothed. “There’s no need to hide from me.”

Holding her gaze, Gold reached down to his trousers. The meaning had her breathing heavier still, the beat of her heart drumming beneath her breasts. She could almost feel her pulse against her palm, but all else was lost on her.

The room and world around them slipped away, until all she could focus on was her pulse and Gold’s eyes on her.

He settled above her, and even when he guided himself to the spot between her legs, Belle couldn’t look away. She hesitantly took her hands from her breasts, and pressed them to his chest. His own heart didn’t drum out a fierce rhythm. She couldn’t feel a thing at all, but Gold pushed himself against her hands and between her legs, a question in his eyes.

Belle nodded and he entered her slowly, so slowly that it overwhelmed her. She tried to remain still beneath him, but her body was both desperate to be filled and unsure of the new sensation of being so full. She squeezed her eyes shut and groaned, until he was fully inside her.

“Please,” she tried to say, and although it was muffled and hardly sounded like a word at all, he seemed to know what she wanted.

He rolled his hips back and gently eased them forward, adding to the unusual feeling inside her. The motion pushed her legs further apart, and it should have made her feel wrong, to be so vulnerable beneath him, but it only thrilled her more. Once the initial discomfort was over, her body began to give way to a more pleasant feeling where they joined. She lifted her legs either side of Gold’s waist, and he dipped down to press his lips to her forehead.

Something in her sparked. An image flashed through her mind, faded and hard to grasp, of Gold unlacing her corset. Those gentle fingers were no longer beside her shoulders, fisted in the bed covers, but were pulling at her dress. The laces were ivory silk, and her dress was a soft gold with a wide hip and frilled sleeves.

It was unlike any fashion she’d seen before.

“My sweet rose,” the man whispered inside her head, and pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead. “Rosalind.”

Belle’s eyes snapped open, to find Gold looking down at her, watching her as he took her.

“Sweet Belle,” he said. “So pure. I long to hear you again. To hear your sweet moans, the things you say when you lose yourself...”

Her eyes slipped shut at the deep, soothing tone of his voice, and she moaned against his tie despite herself.

“That’s it,” he encouraged, rocking in and out of her and burying his face in her neck. “Lose yourself now. For me and only me.”

Wrapping her arms around Gold, Belle arched up against him and unknowingly clawed at his back. He hissed, and the sound sent a shiver through her. She wished they’d taken a moment to undress one another fully. The soft cotton of her nightdress stopped her from feeling his firm chest pressed flush against her own. It didn’t stop her from desperately trying to cling to him. The more his manhood worked inside her, the closer she felt to that maddening bliss he’d pushed her towards twice already.

“Belle,” Gold uttered against her neck. He repeated her name between kisses and laps of his tongue across her throat.

All she could do was nod and pant, and hope he understood her, but all he did was continue to whisper nonsense against her neck like a chant. And then he bit her. It wasn’t hard, but it was unexpected. She gasped and threw her head back, and his kisses continued. He sucked at her skin, drawing her in, and it mixed with the feeling building low in her stomach.

Belle wanted to cry out, a moan rose right at the back of her throat, but then Gold took his lips from her neck and the tie from her mouth.

“Bram,” she half-whispered, half-moaned, unable to keep quiet.

Hushing her gently, Gold cupped the side of her neck and kissed her. She hummed into that kiss, and he growled. An odd taste met her tongue, of copper and [salt]. It wasn’t unpleasant, just odd. It didn’t stop her from happily kissing him back.

Belle pressed her hands into the scratches on his back, holding him against her, and Gold bucked his hips faster. The feeling was nothing like that created by his fingers alone. It was something more, threatening to consume her along with his weight pinning her to the bed and the cold touch of his hand at her throat. She pressed her lips shut, willing herself to keep in herself quiet as the feelings burst through her.

It didn’t work.

A cry escaped her when the tension broke and she found her pleasure, and Gold kissed her again to silence her. She was worried she may have done something wrong. His hips started to slow and drove into her more deliberately, but then he stilled against her and groaned into their kiss, and Belle knew. She hadn’t done anything wrong at all.

Breathing heavily when Gold ended their kiss, and dotted them along her cheek and jaw instead, Belle wrapped her arms around him and held him tight. Distantly, she noted that he was gasping to catch his breath as she was. Other than a heaviness to his movements, in the sated way his arms scooped her up and turned her with him when he fell to her side, he didn’t seem tired at all. Belle’s eyes already felt heavy, her limbs light and ready for rest. But Gold met her eyes steadily, fully alert. They only crinkled slightly at the corners when he smiled at her, and he fondly tucked her hair behind her ear.

He would have to leave soon, she knew. He couldn’t stay all night and wake with her in the morning, no matter how much she wanted him to. For now, Belle had to make the most of her time lying in his arms.

“Little rose,” he whispered.

Belle had still yet to find her voice, but he spoke clearly, soothing her. She let her eyes close, and he spoke again, close to her ear.

“Will you be my wife, Belle?”

She nodded, and looked at him long enough to see his dark eyes still focused on her.

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, always.”

Gold held her tight and pressed a kiss to her forehead as sleep claimed her.


	5. Chapter 5

The following week passed slowly. Everything felt like a dream after that morning she awoke alone, but with her bedsheets crumpled from where Gold had lay. She felt not a trace of guilt when she thought about that night; how she’d given herself to someone who wasn’t her fiancé. She’d even gone as far as to promise Gold that she would marry him, not Gaston.

She didn’t regret a thing, but she did feel different.

She felt light, almost not quite there. Working in her father’s shop, she felt more of an observer as customers talked to her or bought their books. Every step they made across the wooden floor, every voice or clopping of horses outside, was magnified. It made it difficult for her to focus on her work. And then, almost exactly a week after her night with Gold, Gaston held a ball to celebrate their engagement, and she felt even more of an outsider.

Standing at the edge of the ballroom, Belle glanced around as if viewing a particularly dull painting. Everything was white with plaster pillars in the corners of the room, and a ceiling painted to _look_ like chiselled stone, shaped into foliage or bosses. None of it was real. The gold decorations on the wall were painted on, the furniture was new and the drapes were a garishly bright, red cloth. She couldn’t help but compare it to the opulence of Gold’s ballroom. He didn’t have to flaunt his wealth. Everything he owned was finely made and decorated, and at least a century old. If not more.

She listened to people walking in the halls, and their whispers as they discussed what someone they didn’t particularly like was wearing. The guests in the ballroom sat and chatted, and some of them danced. None of the dresses or suits were as fine as those worn by Gold’s guests. There were bright colours and awful floral patterns. There was no sign of rich velvets or black silks. Belle herself wore a high-collared dress, made of a soft blue cotton. It was a lot more demure than the fine dresses she had taken to wearing of late.

A small band played in the corner, but Belle didn’t like their music. One of the violin players kept playing the wrong note. No one else seemed to notice, and Belle had never played the violin, but she knew the note was wrong. It set her on edge. She gripped the flute of her wine glass tighter and tighter, until she felt it crack under the pressure.

It was going to be a long evening.

Setting down her glass, Belle escaped to the peace of the balcony. No one was out there. The double doors stopped her from hearing the whispers of gossip or the unpractised playing of the band.

Taking a deep breath of cool air, she walked across the balcony and away from the house. It was still early in the evening. The sun was only now beginning to set, and the whole sky was a lovely shade of pink and purple. With a wistful sigh, Belle leaned against the stone balcony wall, and looked across Legume’s garden. Even that left a lot to be desired. She couldn’t picture herself living there, no matter how hard she tried.

She stood in the waning light, and frowned. Even from so high up, Belle could see a bee amongst the tulips in the flowerbeds, and every variation in colour; from burnt reds to oranges and pinks. 

A figure, small and dressed in all black, walked solemnly through the garden. His little hands brushed over the tops of the flowers, disturbing the poor bee. Belle knew nothing of Gaston having a much younger brother, or a child of his own, but she wouldn’t be surprised if that were the case.

The boy stopped suddenly, like he could feel her eyes on him, and looked up to the balcony. He was a handsome little boy, but certainly not a Legume. His eyes were too dark, and his hair was a shade of brown closer to her own than Gaston’s black hair. Still, he looked familiar. Something tugged at the back of her mind, a distant memory that told her she’d seen the boy before.

Confused, Belle leaned over the balcony wall and waved. He waved back, the motion oddly calm and controlled for such a young child, and his dark eyes didn’t blink as he smiled at her.

“Belle?” Her father appeared at her side and pulled her down by her elbow. “What are you doing?”

He glanced down at the garden below, but the boy had gone.

“I wanted to enjoy the sunset,” she lied, pulling her arm free and glancing at the sky. The sun was lower now, and the pink sky had turned to blue.

“There’s no time for all that,” he dismissed. “There are important guests here tonight, and you’re not to ruin this opportunity.”

“What opportunity?” Belle challenged.

“The Legumes are rich,” Maurice reminded, frustrated at how Belle always seemed to forget that. As if she could. It was the sole reason her father had arranged their marriage. “But there are richer families in Storybrooke. This is our in with the upper classes, my girl.”

_Rich families._

“What rich families?” she asked, rushing to the windows before Maurice could pull her back. “Who’s here?”

Maurice followed her, mollified by his daughter’s sudden acceptance and interest in the rich families there to celebrate her engagement. Gaston was new money, and they were poor. Gaston was the best she could do, according to her father, but that didn’t stop him from hoping his daughter could charm the older, richer families.

“Someone from the Mills family,” he said, joining her at the window. Belle couldn’t see much in the ballroom with the light of the sunset behind her. A footman went around lighting candles along the edge of the room, some guests moved around to mingle with one another, and finally she spotted a familiar face at the back. He looked antsy, standing around and playing with the brim of his top hat.

Belle leaned closer to the glass but couldn’t see any clearer.

“Why is Mr. Milner here?” she asked.

“He’s accompanying someone,” Maurice continued. “A very rich someone. Richer than the Mills lot.”

Belle turned to him and he smiled, as though he could read her mind and understood her interest in there being someone richer than the Mills family. He didn’t.

Before he could explain further, Belle left his side and briskly returned to the ballroom. She couldn’t see him at first. She spotted Cora Mills sitting at the far end of the room, talking to Gaston and a woman that Belle didn’t recognise. She didn’t recognise many of the guests. They were friends and family of the Legumes.

Disappointed, Belle turned to re-join her father on the balcony, and walked straight into a very solid chest.

“Are you leaving already?” asked a familiar voice as strong hands held her arms and steadied her.

Her heart thumped in her chest just at the sound of that voice, and she looked up to find Gold and his knowing smirk. He looked as out of place as she felt. He hadn’t followed the trend of the bright coloured ties and cravats. He wore all black, with gold accenting his cuffs and a gold pin in his tie.

Belle wanted to reach up and touch it where the light glinted off a small ruby, but she kept her hands at her sides.

“Bram,” she whispered, easily returning his smile. Her skin tingled, her cheeks started to burn, and she hoped no one had spotted them yet. “I’ve been hoping to see you all week. I hadn’t expected to see you here.”

“Really, Miss French?” he asked coolly, releasing her arms. “Did you think I would turn down an invitation to see you?”

Belle’s mouth fell open, but she couldn’t think of anything to say.

“Legume may believe I accepted his invitation because of his wealth, such as it is. But I assure you,” he leaned in to whisper in her ear, without a care for who might see them, “I came here for something far more special.”

Her blush deepened, and she pressed her lips together to hold back her smile as Gold straightened and met her eyes.

“Would you care to dance?” he asked.

She hadn’t danced with Gaston yet, she hadn’t danced with anyone, but it would be awfully rude to turn down such an important guest. Belle nodded and took his hand.

“I preferred our last dance,” she said quietly, just low enough for only him to hear. “The silence was much better.”

They walked to the centre of the room. Gold placed his hand on her hip and Belle took his arm. The music with its incorrect note continued to play, but the chatter of the guests turned to hushed whispers. Neither of them noticed, their eyes were only on one another. Belle didn’t need to close them now to imagine the splendour of Gold’s ballroom. She could picture it clearly in her mind as he held her gaze and led her across the floor.

“Why do you prefer the silence?” he asked lowly, not breaking the sure footing of their dance. 

“The violin,” Belle said. “It’s all wrong.”

Gold frowned.

“You can hear that?” he asked. Belle nodded. “Do you play?”

She opened her mouth to answer but stopped. She had never turned her hand to playing any instrument, and although she had once tried to learn to read music, she had never been very good at understanding it.

“No,” she admitted. “I just know it’s wrong.”

Gold nodded, looking thoughtful, and pulled her a little closer. A few people joined them in their dance, and others sat down to watch.

“Perhaps you have an ear for music,” he suggested. The thought made her laugh, and more people looked their way.

“I can’t think how. I never have before.”

Smiling like a man with a secret that none of the other guests were privy to, Gold snaked his arm around her waist and held her against him.

“I have a theory,” he said. “What if, even after death, we never truly forget the things we’ve learned, or experienced? Some people are natural talents. They can pick up a pen or instrument, and create a masterpiece despite having had no formal training. Some can dance so beautifully,” he added pointedly, “despite never having danced before.”

Belle smiled. “I have danced before, just not this well. I think it’s the partner that makes one a good dancer.”

“Perhaps,” he allowed. “But perhaps it was always within you, and you just needed a reminder of the thing you’d lost.”

“But the dead can’t… _do_ anything.”

Gold lifted an eyebrow and smiled, flashing his teeth. “Can they not?”

Belle pressed her lips into a line. “The dead are just that. Dead.”

He said nothing, only loosened his grip on her and frowned. Belle searched his face and found his easy smiles gone. He was serious. He may have called it a theory, that the dead could somehow retain memories to dance or write music, but it seemed more than just a theory to him. It was a conviction.

“What if the dead could be born again?” he suggested at length. “To live again. Why should they forget the things they already know, or the people they knew?”

She sucked in a breath, watching the dark, expectant glint in his eyes until it all became too much. Her eyes dropped to his chest, to the little ruby winking in the candlelight as they danced. She touched it with the hand that should have held his arm, tracing her trembling fingertips across the pin in his silk tie.

Her cheeks burned. It was the tie he'd worn that night. The one he’d placed in her mouth to keep her quiet.

“Bram...” she whispered. “Is this about your wife?”

Again, Gold said nothing, but the tightening of his jaw gave him away. Belle, pushing down the twist of jealousy in her stomach, thought back to Gold’s library. All of the artifacts and ornaments, the taxidermy and pinned insects; all of the souvenirs of an eventful life spent together.

“I’m sure wherever she is,” Belle said carefully, “she remembers every moment of your life together. All the things you saw on your travels, everything you did… She won’t have forgotten them. How could she? I would give anything to see the world as she did.” _With you_. “I don’t think I could ever forget that.”

Her words of comfort failed. Gold’s stern, sure stare softened and turned sad. He looked down to her hand, where her fingers still caressed his tie, and brought their dance to an abrupt end.

“Perhaps you’re right, Miss French. The dead can’t remember.”

He walked away, leaving her alone among the other dancers, and quit the room.

Belle put her hands to her chest and felt the thump of her heart as awkward whispers picked up around her. She hadn’t meant to upset him. He’d been so open with his comments on his wife before. Perhaps sleeping with her had felt like a betrayal to his wife, and Belle mentioning her had been inappropriate. It likely was. His heart still clearly belonged to someone who was long gone, who had likely died a decade or more ago. If he couldn’t move on from his late wife now, she doubted he ever would.

“Have you and Gold met before?” Maurice asked, eyeing her carefully as she came to stand beside him.

Belle simply shook her head, and tried not to look forlornly towards the empty doorway. Her father hummed, displeased and not quite believing her.

“Careful you don’t ruin one engagement before you secure another,” he warned, nodding towards the man who should have been occupying her thoughts.

Gaston excused himself from Cora Mills’ company, who smiled after him with such a look of amusement that Belle couldn’t help but scowl. It was unladylike, but she didn’t care. If the guests weren’t whispering in bitter judgement, then it seemed they were laughing in her face.

“Do you think I might dance with my fiancée now?” Gaston asked, and impatiently took her hand.

Unable to protest unless she wanted to cause another scene, Belle reluctantly let Gaston drag her back to the middle of the room. A few people watched them and smiled, others whispered. None of the whispers were favourable. She could hear them all clearly, how they thought she would throw Gaston aside if Gold made her an offer. Gaston was the more handsome of the two, they said, but Gold was wealthier.

Frowning, she lightly put her hand on Gaston’s arm and he pulled her into a dance. He stepped forward, and so did Belle. She kicked him and Gaston shook her, pushing her into the correct position.

She couldn’t have hurt him, she was so much smaller than he was, but he wasn’t pleased at her misstep.

“Do it properly,” he hissed in her ear.

Belle swallowed and looked down at their feet, but her skirts got in the way and Gaston pulled roughly on her waist. He turned her, pulling her along in the dance rather than leading her, and Belle had to grip his arm to keep herself from falling.

“Look at me, not your feet,” he instructed, tightening his grip on her. “What is wrong with you?”

“I can’t do it, you’re hurting me,” she snapped, trying to pull herself free.

Gaston scoffed. “You were a competent enough dancer for Gold.”

“I _wanted_ to dance with Mr. Gold.” Belle wriggled free and pushed against his chest, hard. He stumbled backwards, more than a man of his height and build should have. His eyes widened, but only a few people in the hall stopped talking. Most people hadn’t noticed, which should have relieved Belle, but it didn’t. Gaston could use that to his advantage.

He smiled, a pleasant enough sight to the guests around them, but Belle saw the glint of rage in his eyes. He grasped her wrist, pulling her away from the other dancers, and Belle had no choice but to follow. Without preamble or excusing them, Gaston led her from the room. No one said anything. No one tried to stop him, not even her father. He was allowed to pull her from the ballroom, squeezing her wrist so hard she was sure to bruise, and took her down a long corridor to another part of the house.

“Let me go.” She struggled, but the rug slipped under her feet when she tried to dig her heels in, and he threw her against a wall. Her shoulder caught on a door frame, but he didn’t seem to notice. He pushed that same shoulder into the wall with his hand, and Belle bit her cheek to keep herself from crying out.

She didn’t know which part of the house he’d pulled her to, but she couldn’t hear anything of the ballroom now. They were hidden behind a side table with a large, ceramic vase, and there were two doors. The one her shoulder had hit was a small, more discreet door; possibly the servant’s door. The other was large enough for it to perhaps be an outside door, but it couldn’t be a front door. If she were to use it to escape, she would likely only escape into the back gardens. Gaston’s gardens.

“Are you satisfied now?” he demanded, taking her chin to make her look at him. “Not content with embarrassing yourself, you felt the need to cause a fuss and embarrass me with you.”

She lifted her chin out of his grasp. “I didn’t embarrass myself.”

He scoffed, a rather ungentlemanly sound, and Belle clenched her fists.

“You paraded around with Gold like a tart, without a care for what people might think, without a care for what _I_ might think, and you think you haven’t embarrassed yourself?”

“None of you gave a thought to what I think or want!” she threw back, knocking his hand from her shoulder.

Gaston stared at her, towering over her and agitated, and Belle took a step to the side. If she could reach the door, she could run out into the night and hide, or perhaps find where Gold had run off to. Gaston stood between her and the servants’ door, and Belle stepped back.

“What are you raving about?” he asked at last, somehow both angered and baffled. As if the whole thing was her fault.

She didn’t know what to say. Rubbing away the ache in her shoulder, Belle glanced to the outside door, only a short few steps away, but Gaston was even more displeased with her silence than he was her speaking her mind.

“Answer me,” he insisted. “I’ve never seen you behave this way before.”

Shaking her head, Belle stepped back and said, as calmly as she could, “You barely know me.”

“What is there to know?”

Anger. Frustration. Hurt. All of the things Belle had been feeling since discovering her own engagement began to roil in her chest. She scowled at him, about to unleash _something_ , when the servants’ door burst open. It banged against the wall and Belle jumped back. She couldn’t snap at Gaston in front of his own servants, but she could use the distraction to run away.

Gaston turned his back on her, and Belle hurried to the other door.

“ _You?_ ” he asked incredulously. “What are you--”

He cried out, and something heavy tumbled to the ground just as Belle reached the outside door. Somehow, she knew that she shouldn’t look. A feeling of pure instinct told her to keep her back to the opened servants’ door, and to Gaston.

She gripped the door handle, her chance of freedom, but despite knowing that there was danger lurking just behind her, Belle couldn’t bring herself to leave.

Something heavy dragged along the floor. She felt footsteps on the floorboards of someone moving towards her, but she couldn’t hear them.

Her breath came short and fast, but still she couldn’t run.

A rush of air blew over her shoulder, as of someone breathing on the back of her neck. She shivered, and then the presence was gone.

The servants’ door slammed shut.

It all happened too quickly for Belle to process at first. She turned around and her hearing returned. A shuffling came from behind the door, but it was only when something heavy _thumped_ against the wall that she registered what had happened.

She moved forward, one careful step at a time, with her hands clutched in front of her stomach.

“Hello?”

All was quiet. The shuffling had stopped. There were no more thumps. But still she felt like there was something she was missing; something that she should be able to hear, if only she listened harder.

Glancing up and down the hall, Belle found herself to be quite alone, and moved quickly the rest of the way to the door. She pressed her hand against it and tried the handle. It wouldn’t open, but that wasn’t the strangest thing. The metal of the doorknob was bitterly cold, as though she’d plunged her hand into a bowl of icy water.

“Br-- Gaston?” she whispered.

Still, she heard nothing.

Heart pounding in her ears, Belle held her breath and pressed her ear to the door. There, she heard something. Faint at first, the sound of something bubbling reached through the door. The awful sound of gurgling spluttered, rasped, and ended on a sharp gasp before she heard truly nothing at all.

She backed away from the door quickly, worrying her hands together and looking around frantically for _something_. Dare she open the door and see what she suspected was on the other side? A part of her that was ever curious told her that she should open the door, if she ever wanted the truth. But something else, a gentle voice in the back of her head, told her to turn and walk away.

In the end, the gentle voice won.

Trying to keep her breathing calm, Belle rubbed at her sore shoulder and walked back towards the ballroom. Nothing followed her. The door remained shut, and only the hollow echo of her heels on the wood floor stayed with her, even as her steps quickened. The echo of smaller footsteps followed her.

A footman left the ballroom and music flooded out into the corridor after him. The reality of what had happened hit her. She couldn’t go back into the ballroom as though nothing had happened. How would she explain Gaston’s disappearance? What if the footman was heading for the servants’ door? Belle turned to follow after him, but he was gone. In his place, standing in the centre of the hall she had just walked down, was another man.

“Jefferson?” She frowned, hurrying towards him. “What are you doing out here?”

“You have to leave,” he said without so much as a greeting. He still held his top hat, turning it around nervously by the brim.

“I have to find Gaston, or… I can’t go just yet,” she said carefully.

“Oh, but you must. You must.” He took her arm in a far gentler grip than Gaston had, and turned her around as though that would convince her to leave.

“It’s not safe,” he continued, but he sounded more like he was talking to himself as he nudged her along with his hand on her back. “Gaston isn’t here, and you mustn’t go through that door. Stay away from it.”

“Why?”

She twisted, trying to see the door or Jefferson over her shoulder, but he didn’t relent in guiding her away.

“It’s not safe,” he repeated. “Gold isn’t safe. I’m not safe. Take his carriage, go home, and let no one in but your father. _Invite_ no one in.”

They were outside before she could protest any more. Most of the guests’ carriages were still in the drive, waiting to return them home when the party began to die down. The horses had been taken away, but one carriage still had the horses in their harness.

Jefferson released her and waved to the driver. She couldn’t see the man’s face. He wore all black, and a hood hung low over his head, obscuring his face in shadows as he rode closer.

“Go now,” Jefferson said.

“I can’t just take Gold’s carriage,” she protested, but Jefferson was already opening the door and trying to usher her inside. “My father Is still in there. I can’t leave without him.”

“You can. You must. I will keep him here a little longer and give you a chance to get away.”

He tried to push the door closed on her, but Belle kept her foot in the way. She desperately needed to know the truth, and she wouldn’t let Jefferson bundle her away until she heard it.

“Away from what?” she asked, meeting his eyes without flinching.

He looked so tired, so sorry. 

“Us.”

The door snapped shut, and Belle fell to the side as the coach drove away.


End file.
